


Weary Head

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley, Aziraphale loves Crowley, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Some angst, Sweetness, comforting Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25022305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: Crowley is tired, and sad, and scared. Aziraphale comforts him
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 174





	Weary Head

Aziraphale’s eyes follow Crowley. He’s seated in one of his overstuffed armchairs, a well-worn book open on his lap, but he’s not looking at it - he’s watching the slow, stiff movements of Crowley’s limbs as he wanders through the bookshop, touching shelves, straightening displays. He’s watching Crowley’s eyes, the distracted way they wander, only skimming the things he’s touching before moving on again, shifting side to side as though he’s anticipating some attack from behind. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently. “Are you all right?” 

Crowley looks back at him. His smile, gray and paper-thin, fixes a little higher on his face. “Yeah. ‘Course, angel. M’fine.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t push. He can be patient. But he doesn’t stop his watching, doesn’t stop carefully recording what he sees. 

These past few days Crowley’s been acting distant. Aziraphale sees it in small ways, in the dip of his head before breakfast, in the absence of his off-key singing while he scrambles the eggs, in the unidentifiable colorlessness of his cheeks during these long, lazy days with Aziraphale. Aziraphale has seen the way Crowley appears to be crumbling at the edges, even when he kisses Aziraphale, even when he tells him he loves him, even when he holds Aziraphale in his thin, strong arms at night. 

“Would you like some tea?” Aziraphale asks. “I think I’ll make some for myself, and I could fix a cup for you as well.” 

Crowley seems to perk up. “Nah - I’ll do it. I can make you tea.” 

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure?” 

He doesn’t smile, which is so heart-wrenchingly strange, but he does have a certain kind of eagerness in his movements as he moves toward the kitchen. Aziraphale doesn’t protest. He watches Crowley, still from his armchair, where he has view enough of the stove. He watches as Crowley puts the kettle on, lighting it with a miracles rather than fiddling with the oven’s knobs. He watches as Crowley watches the kettle, a strange intensity in his eyes.

“Crowley?” 

“Mmm? Yeah?” Crowley doesn’t look up. 

Aziraphale leans across the arm of his chair toward the kitchen door. “Would you come here and kiss me, please?” 

There’s a slight chuckle. “Just a minute, angel. Just as soon as the tea’s ready. I’ll bring it in and then I’ll kiss you silly.” 

Aziraphale stays leaned over his chair. He wants Crowley to look up. He wants to see what’s in Crowley’s eyes, wants to show through his that it’s all right, that Crowley can talk to him. But Crowley’s eyes stay on the pot. 

He watches Crowley pour the tea into Aziraphale’s mug, then pick it up with one slightly-trembling hand and move back toward him, that fixed smile still in place. 

“Thank you, dear,” says Aziraphale warmly, reaching out for it. He puts as much affection into his expression as he can. “You know, you’re so kind to me.” 

Crowley’s finger’s slip; the mug slides through them, and before either of them can think, before they can stop it, it’s plummeted to the floor. Tea bursts out onto the carpet, spreading a dark stain over it, and the mug breaks into white shards; Aziraphale draws his hand back in surprise, and he almost misses seeing Crowley step away. In the next moment his eyes are fixed up on the demon again. 

Crowley’s hands move to cover his face. Then he’s crying. 

“Oh, love,” says Aziraphale softly, and rises, reaching out, offering his arms to Crowley; Crowley’s shoulders shake as he buries himself in the embrace. It’s a silent kind of crying, not of some great world-swallowing grief but simply of weakness, of weariness. Crowley doesn’t sob, but his breaths are fast and jerky and his face is damp as Aziraphale draws it to his chest.

“What is it, darling?” Aziraphale murmurs.

Crowley’s hands grip the front of Aziraphale’s shirt. His voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m tired, Aziraphale. I’m so - I’m so _tired._ ” 

Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s hair, slow and gentle. “Talk to me.” 

“Everyone’s still against us.” Crowley’s fists clench around the soft fabric of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “The world’s still mad. The whole universe is - god, Aziraphale, it’s _still_ at war. Those bastards still hold all the power up there.” 

“I know.” Aziraphale rubs slow circles into Crowley’s back. “Oh, my dear, I know.” 

“How much longer is it going to go on?” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale pulls Crowley past the spilled tea, back to his armchair, and coaxes him into his lap as he sits again. “My darling.” 

“I’m so tired…” 

Aziraphale maneuvers Crowley so the demon’s head is resting once more against his chest. Then, one arm still curled around Crowley’s shoulder, one hand still tenderly stroking through his hair, he breathes in deep and slow. He makes sure Crowley feels the motion and hears the steady heartbeat that thrums underneath it. 

“Listen to that,” he murmurs. “Try to breathe with that.” 

Crowley’s breath hitches for a moment, and Aziraphale wonders if he’s going to start crying again. But he pauses, and listens to Aziraphale take another slow breath, and then follows suit. 

“That’s it.” Aziraphale smooths the hair back from Crowley’s forehead and presses a kiss to it. “Keep breathing, love. I’m here with you.” 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley shudders through his next breath. “Angel.” 

“Don’t do anything else.” He wants to keep Crowley like this, still in the midst of the storm of his worries. He wants to show Crowley he has a rock to cling to. “Just listen - you’re safe here, nothing’s going to hurt you.” 

“I just - I just…” Crowley presses his head against Aziraphale’s heart so hard it almost hurts. “I just want things to be quiet. I just want things to be _happy_. Is that - is that so much to ask for, after the end of the world?” 

Aziraphale sighs. He knows what Crowley means, though he hasn’t yet allowed it to overwhelm him - though despite efforts to hide it, Crowley does feel these things so deeply. But he doesn’t have an answer to offer. The darkness of the universe is a constant, ever-changing, yet ever-the-same sort of thing. All he’s ever managed to do is create tiny pricks of light within it. 

“Listen,” Aziraphale says. “ _I’m_ happy.” 

Crowley looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed and plaintive. 

“You’ve made me the happiest angel in history, this past year,” he whispers, and strokes Crowley’s shoulder, gently but firmly, a grounding thing. “You’ve made this bookshop happier than it’s ever been in two hundred years.” 

There’s no answer except Crowley burrowing deeper into the embrace. 

“Breathe with me, Crowley. I love you. Can you believe that?” 

Crowley’s next exhale is perfectly timed with Aziraphale’s. His muscles relax a little, loosened in the warmth of Aziraphale’s arms. And Aziraphale knows that’s something Crowley believes. In all the endless days and nights they’ve spent together now, it isn’t something he could possibly deny.

So he lets Crowley cling to him, and he holds his demon close. And calm washes over the bookshop as the shards of a teacup lie forgotten on the carpet.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my content? Find me on tumblr @[whatawriterwields](https://whatawriterwields.tumblr.com)!


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